


Dead promises (it was never a game)

by TheonlyDan



Series: Crash and burn (so we never learn) [3]
Category: Evanescence (Band), Nightwish, Real Person Fiction, Sharja, Within Temptation (Band)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, implications of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: Sharon couldn’t go back and warn herself to be careful what she wished for.Because having it all meant one day you were going to lose it all.orA sequence of angsty drabbles.Sequel to What a wicked game we play (but roses will bloom)
Relationships: Sharon den Adel/Tarja Turunen
Series: Crash and burn (so we never learn) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823182
Kudos: 6





	Dead promises (it was never a game)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction borrowing online resources of Within Temptation, My Indigo, and Tarja Turunen. Most of the events in my work were fabricated, only the dates and places of the concerts were real.  
> Again, I do not own any of the mentioned musicians' creations.

Sometime around April 2020

_“……so you know after the together-at-home thing we did, I started exploring the many options of media platforms, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me on Instagram? It will be like a recording us live-chatting, and I think it would be fun! Fun to our fans, at least. They are no doubt getting super-duper bored in quarantine. So uh, call me back if you’re interested! Adios!”_

Sharon had been listening to the message until she could memorize every word, and tell exactly when the enthusiasm was faked. Of course she knew what Tarja was doing lately. She had been keeping track, an unwilling yet desperate habit. She had tried to include herself in Tarja’s life.

The flowers bloom then they need to fade; Sharon tried and so did Tarja.

It all felt like too long ago.

Sharon replied curtly, saying she’d be honored to participate. Then she deleted the voicemail from Tarja.

***

Sometime around the first week of January 2017

“Why did you name it _The Shadow Shows_?”

“Hmmm?”

Tracing lazy figure-eights on Tarja’s naked shoulder blades, they fluttered and reminded Sharon of birdlings testing out their wings for the first time. She stared, mesmerized by the streaks of light falling upon her lover’s black hair, tinting it golden. Sharon learned by now that Tarja’s hair was originally brown, her favorite restaurants in Benahavis, Marbella, and Puerto Banús was why Sharon fell in love with Spanish food all over again; Tarja’s favorite morning routine was a double-espresso before swimming under the morning light, and the resolutions she made for each year were actually all the same.

“Because shadows are black.”

Tarja said simply. _Black is her favorite color._ Sharon shifted, making space for the younger woman to turn and lay on her back. The bedsheets fell somewhere on the floor. Tarja had no intention to cover her own naked form, and it made Sharon semi self-conscious. She received a greedy but not overly-lecherous gaze, sweeping all over her body until the owner responsible for the ogle stopped at looking into her eyes. They got lost for a moment, browns boring into the greens, emeralds sinking impossibly deeper into the liquid bronzes.

“Do you know that you are so beautiful, sometimes it hurts?”

Tarja muttered. Sharon grinned and fell back to the pillow, now no longer needed to look at Tarja’s sculptured back on her elbows.

“I hope you are not asking me next that did it hurt.”

“Come on. Not another English joke only I don’t get.”

Sharon laughed and tugged her chin in the crook of Tarja’s neck, taking in the perfect scent of feminine perspiration and floral smell. If she concentrated, she could still taste Tarja in her mouth, and Tarja could probably say the same thing about the other woman.

“Did it hurt?”

“What hurt? I hate to be the stupid—”

“When you fell from heaven?” Tarja didn’t respond. Sharon couldn’t see her from this angle. _What is she thinking about?_ Sharon splayed a hand on Tarja’s chest, monitoring the heartbeats and savoring the smooth skin, which radiated the trembling heat. She loved all the little signs Tarja gave. Sharon was good at puzzles, and she hoped to never solve Tarja out. “You know, because you are an angel, so it’s a compliment…?”

“Yeah, now you’re over-explaining the plot and it’s no fun.” The realization in Tarja’s dramatic complaint was loud and clear. Sharon giggled to herself. “But I got to admit it’s a pretty good one.”

“Really? Now how about this one: if you are words on a page—”

“No!” Tarja shouted in protest, “Don’t wanna hear it!”

She tried to cover Sharon’s mouth but she wriggled away. The Dutch laughed, “Then you would be fine—mmph!”

She underestimated Tarja’s strength. In a flash the Finnish woman had straddled her, and started to muffle her with kisses; black curtains of her silky locks blanketed them into their own safe haven. She shrieked and laughed into Tarja’s mouth, feeling the other woman smirking in their playful yet passionate exchanges.

Sharon gave in to her desire not soon after.

“Let’s do _Angels_ in Metal Fest.”

One hour later, over-satiated, Tarja broke the drowsy silence. Sharon rubbed her own heavy eyelids and thought distantly, that there must be reasons more complicated for Tarja to pick that song from a million others. Their duet weighted more than all the cheesy pickup lines combined.

But she didn’t ask what prompted Tarja to make that decision; Sharon studied the other woman’s serene, statuesque profile. Maybe later Tarja would tell her why, now that she was musing over something again. Sharon had gotten accustomed to the distance between them, when every time Tarja would find her way back.

***

“Time flieeeeees.” Tarja whined, hugging Sharon’s taller form until she couldn’t breathe. Swaying back and forth, it was slightly awkward but they were too invested at the moment of departure. Sharon eventually giggled, and smacked the side of Tarja so she would let go. They were at the airport. Tarja was sending Sharon off to her home country. Behind them, Marcelo was taking care of Naomi. “Do you really have to go?”

The question was more for askance sake. Sharon answered with a loaded yet affectionate gaze. Tarja was skittish, shifting her stance with her hands wrung together. The older woman didn’t know what to say, only that she knew she needed to leave no matter how difficult it would be in the following months. Tarja’s schedule would start to get bombarded at February, and Sharon wanted to eliminate all the traces she left in Andalusia—in all the places Tarja took her to, in the pool of her house where they made love, in Tarja’s favorite spot of the beech where they watched the quiet sunset, drink after drink in her couch where they traded secrets. The most unbearable ones.

( _I was bullied._

_So had I. You got to hate it when people started patronizing._

_But I don’t even deserve it…little Sharon got bullied, boohoo how tragic. But nobody knew she turned out to be a bully herself. I never told anybody that I bullied a girl for years until she transferred away._

_Again. Those who truly know you would not give you anything you don’t deserve. What had made you stop? Was that girl your last prey?_

_I…I guess I never quite grow out of it._

_How so?_

_People around me are all my victims, Tarja. You should know it by now.)_

Sharon wanted to eliminate herself in Tarja, painful but effective to the younger woman’s burden. But Sharon knew she was not strong enough for that. So she chose the quick and easy short-term solution, by bringing up something they could talk about.

“Hey, you say you want to sing _Angels_ , but I kind of want to do _I walk alone_. It would be nice to sing something from you.”

Tarja blinked. Sharon watched, a little confused, as the shorter woman’s smile turned dour.

“Oh! Sure! We’ll…we will find something.”

“Yeah we always do.” Sharon quickly went along, a dangerous habit she developed around Tarja. It was not the time to think how and when it started to happen; she only knew it was a long-overdue problem, a _tumor_ in their relationship. Tarja looked crestfallen and was trying her best to remain normal. A surge of irrational anger pounded into Sharon’s head, so she added rather flippantly, “But there’s definitely going to be _Paradise_.”

The forced smile turned into a grimace. Tarja looked like she got a punch in the stomach. Sharon wondered if she had successfully made Tarja angry by suggesting that money comes before the woman she loves. Mentioning the propaganda of her own band’s creation, certainly did the trick.

“Of course.”

Too gaily Tarja announced, shifting a millimeter away from Sharon. The body language didn’t go unnoticed. The pain and hurt in Tarja’s eyes now slid into an impenetrable granite-like mirror, because the more Sharon tried to see she only saw herself: the alter-ego who was incredibly selfish and careless.

Too many hours later, Sharon finally understood that she was Tarja’s fallen angel. She had thrown away her chances at redemption by pushing Tarja away, saying _I walk alone_. Sharon got accustomed to the distance between them because _she_ herself was the one creating it. Every time Tarja came back was actually with battered blues after a million prods—a thousand times her sword of love and courage broke before Sharon’s armor.

Fear gripped Sharon’s heart in the coldest fingers. She grabbed her phone and called Tarja.

Tarja didn’t pick up.

***

Things stopped going downhill before they had to go on stage, much to Sharon’s relief. She was tired and drained; every time she called to the studio back to say that she had nothing yet to offer, panic and guilt killed her a little.

Tarja wasn’t there for her most of the time. Her absence was the most evident now, when Sharon desperately needed someone to whisk her focus away from the dreadful reality: there might not be a future for WT (nor Sharon’s marriage, actually).

But she didn’t blame her. After realizing what she had been doing to the Finnish woman, Sharon only allowed herself to feel blessed whenever Tarja made time for her. She morphed into her active self, being positive, and never let the possibilities of forgiveness slip. Sharon felt better whenever the other woman seemed to put it all behind.

Only when Tarja sounded all right did Sharon relax.

“Do you remember that night we drank beer, after Hellfest?”

“I’ll never forget.”

A fond grin touched upon Sharon’s face as she spoke to the computer screen. Tarja didn’t smile back.

“And what I have told you? About you pushing yourself too hard?”

She didn’t like the worried look on her lover’s face, nor the urgency in her tone. But Sharon didn’t say anything.

_Remember. You ARE grateful._

“Yeah, I think so.” Tarja stayed silent and Sharon realized she was waiting for her to elaborate. Her palms started to get clammy, “So, how did the show go tonight?”

It was not what she intended to say. The frightening moment changed Sharon into someone she was not, and she was hoping Tarja would understand.

But the disappointment on Tarja’s face explained enough.

She started to tell Sharon stories about her recent cultural shocks and fan-encounters that went ballistic. But no matter how animated their conversation flowed, both knew their hearts weren’t in it.

_You need to loosen up a bit…you are pushing yourself too far and you don’t spare yourself with enough goodness. Sometimes you can chase other things first, and it wouldn’t stop you from getting what you want the most…_

But Sharon never knew what she wanted the most. She only knew she wanted it all.

She also realized what she was doing was wanting things from Tarja, not wanting Tarja.

***

Sometime before Metal Fest Open Air, 2017

Tarja was meant to break it off with Sharon, but there was that trademark smile of hers, innocent and bright enough to light up the whole Plzeň; Sharon seemed so happy to see her. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder._ They were nearly five months apart.

Then there was the guilty make-up-sex that wasn’t supposed to feel this good. She swallowed her words to put Sharon’s needs before herself.

Tarja was too kind for her own good; kindness was Tarja’s cruelty and selfishness to Sharon. She doubted if the Dutch were aware, that they were entering the cul-de-sac their relationship. Tarja got tired alone at watching how the older woman tried. Perhaps Sharon was tired too. Tired in denial, that they were not going anywhere.

Sharon was grabbing the nearest branch to prevent her fall, and that twig was going to break soon. Tarja was going break, sooner or later.

***

“How did we end up like this?”

 _You finally asked._ Tarja thought with morbid satisfaction, twirling the cigarette thinly in her hand. Next to her, Sharon was also smoking. She didn’t ask _why_ the Dutch brought a pack with her, nor _when_ she had picked up a habit so out-of-character. Sharon didn’t even like the taste.

It reminded Tarja the times she spent in the Nightwish tour bus, where the space always seemed to cave in on her as she endured the second-hand-smoke, with a bunch of guys, each one wanting something from her. Tarja sighed and put out her cig.

To the others, Sharon and she were “rehearsing” in their hotel room, not having sex like there was no tomorrow. Maybe there was no future for them.

“Maybe we are always meant to be this way.”

Tarja spoke matter-of-factly. The other woman took a sharp drag of her smoke, forcing back a stinging flood of tears. Things became true once they were spoken out loud, not the other way around to Sharon’s chagrin. _You can’t prevent the truth from happening because it will work its way back to you._

Sharon hissed and got jolted out of her reveries. The cigarette butt had burnt her hand. By the time she snuffed it out on the ashtray, her fingers were smarting in an angry shade of red.

“I got some Lucas’ Papaw. Let me grab some for you.”

“You brought them on tour?”

“Yeah. Years ago. I kept storage of them just in case.”

She went on, recounting the many effects and greatness of the balm. A desperate sort of love rushed deep within Sharon when she watched the bare, wan back of Tarja, who was kneeling on the floor and digging into her baggage.

“Tari?”

“Hmmm?”

Something in the Dutch’s voice stopped Tarja’s movements. She glanced back. On the bed sat a naked goddess, showered with a glimmer of holy light, her big brown eyes reddened with bewilderment and gratitude.

“Sweetie what’s the matter?”

Tarja gave up the ointment and walked hurriedly towards Sharon. The Dutch exhaled shakily.

“I don’t know. Could you just…hold me for a while?”

“Of course.” Heart heavy, she gathered the older woman into a hug. Sharon buried her tear-stained face in the nook of Tarja’s shoulder, crying silently. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” Sharon croaked, “I’m sorry I love you. I’m sorry that I have never asked what’s wrong. I know how sick you must be, putting up with me.”

“No I am not. And not everything is your fault.” Swallowing thickly, Tarja wished later she would believe in all of the consolations she said to Sharon, “You know I love you too, right?”

Sharon gave a teary chuckle and nodded in her arms. Her sobbing ceased shortly. But what they were thinking about, was that love wasn’t the remedy to everything.

***

Sometime around mid-February, 2020

It was hardly the first time Tarja elicited a sense of betrayal in Sharon. She stared at the official Instagram page of the Finnish singer, feeling miserable at the picture-perfect post.

_20 years and going strong! Happy Valentines for everyone._

The photo featured one hand of newly manicured fingers, and another masculine with wild veins protruding. Both were wedding-ringed, and intertwined together under the fine light. One of the hands belonged to the woman she loved.

Sharon knew the things between them had been forced to a stop, a gradual and bitter process, yet she couldn’t shake the _jealousy_ —yes, now she would categorize that complex feeling of anger, powerlessness and residual affection simply as one cynical, vengeful word. _Did that count as progress?_

The first time Sharon felt betrayed, Marcelo was also the accomplice even if he wasn’t present. It was fortunate of Sharon (or unfortunate, depending on the angle of perspective) because she could blame someone other than Tarja.

It felt the most painful. To Sharon, it would always be something that destroyed the promise. A promise that Tarja and she would be all right.

In 2017, the duo gave the performance of a lifetime in Metal Fest. Two days later before Tarja went away, she told Sharon why Marcelo “approved” of their relationship since apparently, the fact was eating the Finnish woman alive.

 _He is a businessman. Please don’t blame that on him._ Anger forked into Sharon’s brain until she saw nothing but red. _The chemistry between us is really amazing, don’t you agree? The audience isn’t blind, Sharon. Marcelo has a point._

“But you let him profit on the love we have.”

In the present Sharon muttered to herself, dry-eyed. But then she laughed in all the bleakness she could muster: what kind of twisted couple endures infidelity because it brings money?

Sharon knew better. She was angry then because Tarja was defending her husband. She was sad because she only had herself to blame.

_You never asked._

Tarja’s voice haunted her until now, where all that pain was supposed to be reduced to a thin, spiraling smoke of memory. A shred of ghost. Then evaporate into nostalgia.

But back then tragedies kept on happening, leaving Sharon no place and time to think. Sharon’s father was dying. Her career too.

The second time she felt betrayed, Rob was the mastermind, not Tarja. So Sharon was fortunate to blame others still.

***

Sometime around January 2018

“What do you mean that the chances aren’t big? He has been here before since three years ago…and how…it was not even the point!”

Sharon yelled at the doctor, disbelief paling her face ghoulish. Her body was not in the best condition to fight, but her mind told her it was ill-advised to flee from reality.

The reality was, the doctor was telling her that her father was not going to make it this time.

“I’m sorry.” Rob had no right to apologize on her behalf. He laid his hand upon her arm, tentative like he was touching a wounded dog, “Sharon, let’s just—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!”

She shook away the pointless touch and stood up. The doctor, her husband…none of that mattered because the pages of her world were folding inward like a gothic novelette burning in the fire, all in a quick harsh blur.

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It will make you look like a crazy bitch._

“Sharon?”

The familiar feminine voice echoed from behind. Sharon whirled around, dizzy as the feeling of betrayal slap her on the face.

“You called _her_?”

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I—”

“You can’t just…you’re all the same.” Sharon stated, bitter and powerless, “ _You are all the same.”_

“Sharon—”

Tarja and her husband called as she rushed out the door, the numbness filling her cold and heavy like poisonous mercury. It was the right reaction to get out of the room.

_(Because, just because)_

Normal people wouldn’t want to be with their spouses and lovers in the same space. Normal people tended to hide themselves in the bathroom and cry after their parents’ deathbed was announced.

Sharon pretended to be normal until one day she couldn’t anymore. Nothing could save her from herself, not for the warmest sun like Rob, nor the brightest moon like Tarja. Her kids were the three shooting stars she wished upon, and Sharon couldn’t go back and warn herself to be careful what she wished for.

Because having it all meant one day you were going to lose it all.

***

“It was horrible of me to…to treat you like that. I am sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize—”

“But you don’t have to fly back that quick.”

Tarja flinched upon the sharp snap. The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound like Sharon. But the woman she knew had never lost a father before. _Her_ Sharon only suffered trauma which Tarja could heal.

“Yeah…I guess so. I just thought being there wouldn’t do you any good.”

“You _thought_. Of course.” A few humorless chuckles reached Tarja’s ears. She clenched her fists hard enough for her nails to puncture her palm, and couldn’t tell which was more painful. “But you are actually right about that last part.”

“Oh.” Tarja offered weakly, “Ok. Right.”

There was nothing left to say. Anything would sound redundant. _Bloodless_.

“You really don’t have to leave that fast.” Sharon’s voice softened, and Tarja blamed her own imagination, “Why did you even come in the first place?”

“I…” _I miss you._ Tarja didn’t dare to say that, “I was thinking—”

_No. Don’t say what you think. Don’t you know by now that Sharon hated that?_

“I wanted to see you.”

The answer was honest but not good enough. The wordless interval bled into eternity. Oceans away, large teardrops slid across Sharon’s cheeks unbeknownst to the younger woman.

“Do you still want to see me?”

_Even we were swallowed by cracks that were proved, again and again, irreversible?_

The tears spilled hotly into a minuscule pond on Sharon’s desk. Tarja remained silent.

***

Sometime around the spring of 2018

_My Indigo_ was out. Amidst another busy schedule, Tarja ordered an afternoon of solitude where she could listen to the whole track, with absolutely no interruptions.

She had to stop in the middle of the jog to check her own hearing. Yes, the snipped of music, originally her birthday gift, had been turned into a song for everyone in the world to listen. To _fucking_ listen to their _fucking_ free will and _fucking_ amusement.

She felt sick.

Later she threw up before shower, because she googled all of the lyrics in the album, and found herself written all over it.

Then she felt better. Quick to forgive, the red-hot resentment and disbelief were washed away by the warm, mellow water, disappearing with the suds flowing into the drain. For Sharon, _My Indigo_ was just another therapy session. Tarja felt a violent, indulgent kind of devotion when she realized, there might not be someone else that knew Sharon this well, and could still love her this much. The idea provoked another surge of pride, then Tarja almost hated herself for her own selflessness.

Sharon operated the exact opposite. She loved white while Tarja black. She loved the day and Tarja the night. She wrote lyrics first, while melodies always came storming into the Finnish singer’s songwriting process. To them emotions worked differently; for Sharon they were a roomful of monsters she’d like to close a door on. For Tarja, she knew couldn’t live without them, so she treated them like friends and buried them deep.

But apparently, they were not so different, now that they were both profiting on feelings.

_If one day she saw who Sharon really was, would she be disappointed?_

What Tarja regretted the most, was that she disclosed things just for a test—to see how long it would take for Sharon to find out herself. The result backfired, the bitter end irreversible.

But in all honesty, Tarja also saw who Sharon really was. She still loved her, but that love had faded into something of mercy, appreciation, and residual passion.

She should also stop rushing to Sharon’s side when she needed her. The thought ricocheted back and forth with _I’m so fucking rich why don’t I have a private jet already_ when she rushed to the airport, as soon as she got an emergency call from the most unexpected person on earth.

“Sharon was…not well. Her father…”

The man in her phone sounded familiar, and Tarja recognized it was Robert’s voice. She didn’t even have his number in her phone.

“Tell me everything.”

She kept on loving Sharon because the Dutch had left an immovable mark (dent? Bruise? _Scar_?) in her heart. That was what Sharon always do: barging into people’s lives, irresponsible because she was selfishly ignorant with a soul so goddamn beautiful, then make all her “chosen-ones” stay.

Tarja would like to know why Sharon picked her to stay. Or she didn’t really want to know at all.

Roses bloom, then they wither. You don’t want to get behind the science of it since it would ruin the beauty.

***

Sometime around 2019, Maters of Rock

“Tarja? May I come in?”

A few raps came through the door. The Finnish singer was just finishing up, stretching in her sports bra and leggings. Normally Tarja would be irritated at those who dared to disturb her during her “ritual”—a series of exercises, joined with a healthy dosage of meditation before she went onstage. But that faraway voice sounded too much like Sharon.

With four swift steps, Tarja opened the door.

“Sharon!” She exclaimed. The superstar took her breath away. Sharon’s complexion looked really well even under the layered makeup; with just a few pieces of accessory clothing, she’d be ready to rock, “What the hell are you doing here? You are going live, like, in an hour!”

In one fervent instant Sharon looked like a deer caught in the headlights. But Tarja was the one entitled to be frightened—how was she supposed to act all righteous and collected in the presence of Sharon, when the Dutch was all dressed up in stage costume (tight, too tight to Tarja’s liking because she didn’t want to share the view with others) that revealed and flattered all the right places?

Sharon was frightened beyond words. The sight of Tarja was not she had in mind at all. She wasn’t expecting her to be all sweaty and rosy like the times they—

_(Don’t stop, Sharon…fuck…_

_Look at you, all wet and needy. What if we get caught? I hate to let the others see you this way.)_

_—_ they had sex. Wild, unprepared public sex.

“I want to see your…your _tattoo_.” Sharon’s voice was timid, and her thoughts spoke louder than her words. Mists of desire clouded her features and it was infectious. Tarja swallowed, the movement causing a droplet of perspiration to glide along her neck. The taller woman noticed and continued, “I didn’t know you would really get one, um, at the end of twenty-seventeen I remember?”

“Yeah, around that, November.” Tarja mumbled distantly, catching the taller woman licking her own lips when her gaze upon her own expanse of skin, “I guess you didn’t have the chance to get a good look at it.”

“Could I? Have a closer look at it, I mean?”

“Sure.” A tremulous pause rolled by with reckless abandonment, “Would you mind closing the door behind you?”

Several minutes later, a member of Tarja’s makeup team scrambled away from the door, pale and shaken, and told the rest of the crew to wait a bit longer.

“Why? She going all bitchy on you again?”

“You should see the other woman.”

***

  
Sometime around the end of 2019

Tarja didn’t know what to think about the announcement.

She knew Amy Lee—they met briefly in September, but still didn’t know each other very well. Their meeting was still fresh in Tarja’s head but all she could summon about the female lead of Evanescence, was the unperturbed attitude, the cool, river-like gaze (too civil in Tarja’s standard), and features that were razor-sharp although her body shape was round and curvy.

The collaborative tour of Evanescence and Within Temptation would certainly be thrilling to their fans.

But Tarja was not thrilled, she was sure about that. Watching the freshly-released interview of Amy and Sharon, Tarja felt clumsy and panicky because—

_(You are not jealous, are you?)_

—because she couldn’t stand the fact that Sharon got better without her, that Sharon no longer needed her. Tarja was supposed to be happy that her girl had walked out the shadows of losing her blood. She also thought she was fine with their status quo.

Amy also had black hair, pale skin, perceptive eyes, but her English was a lot better than Tarja ( _Well damn, Amy is American. What do you expect?_ ). In the interview clips, Amy carried star-power, an air of nobility that was opposing; she was unignorably strong in her presence, and she did so by not overreacting nor being dramatic—just the opposite of Tarja.

The Finnish was biting her nails nervously, deep in concentration at the interactions between Sharon and Amy. It was stupid but not something to be done in vain.

They were comfortable on camera, with absolutely zero physical interactions. Reserved admiration—the appreciation for another artist—was being exchanged in several glances, and there was no electricity, no _edginess_ like when Tarja worked on _Paradise_ with Sharon. Sharon in contrast, was alert and wearing a loose, guarded look. Tarja would understand that the Dutch was relaxed because Amy had no intention to probe. The American was rather self-absorbed, and it gave Sharon her comfort zone.

It was Tarja’s habit of getting too close; maybe that was Tarja’s problem, always wanting to be the savior to those she deemed worthy.

But you could never save those who didn’t want to be saved.

Tarja snapped the pc shut, and gave a heavy sigh. _The fuck was any of that analysis necessary._

 _Life goes on_ , just like what she said in the press conference after she was fired from Nightwish, _life gotta go on_.

***

Sometime around the beginning of 2020

Tarja decided she was going to have a love-hate relationship with Covid-19, because it made Sharon reach out to her, inquisitive and dainty, asking about Tarja’s health, family and life. The Finnish was beyond surprised. It went breezy and too good to be true; the reasons were too convenient—this was the end of the fucking world. Say goodbye to your loved ones, people, before the pandemic takes out every single life on mother earth.

“Is it ok if I hand you the microphone? You know that WHO together-at-home beneficial live thing?”

“Oh yeah! I know that! The concert that has something to do with Lady Gaga…”

Tarja trailed off, thinking rashly that _sure, she hasn’t performed for a while and this is the perfect chance._

_The perfect chance to contribute something to the world, not the chance to make amends with Sharon._

“Ok. I am in.”

“Are you sure? Wow!” Sharon giggled, ecstatic with contagious joy, “Thank you Tarja!”

“Ah, you still can’t pronounce my name right.”

“Come on. Let that go already.” Sharon whined as Tarja broke into a series of hysterical laughter, “Say my name then.”

“Sharon den Adel.”

“It’s sha-ran. Not sha-wrong.”

Then after a peaceful, lively silence, Tarja finally muttered, “There’s absolutely no difference.”

They ended the call, minimal pretense, no hard feelings. And that was hard-proven progress.

Except that Tarja dreamed about Sharon that night, couldn’t quite remember the content of the dream, only that it was worthy of every bit of her sentiment.

Except that Sharon discovered how cathartic it was, finally coming clean to herself she could never forget the warm, embracing Finnish. She could never replace her in any way.

Sharon exhaled shakily with a weak smile— _it is so fucking hard to be honest with oneself, yet once you do it, closure will no longer be a myth_. With a sharp intake of breath, the refreshing oxygen purifying her whole system, it dawned on her: gratefulness was never forced. Sharon truly felt blessed only now, reconciling with herself after the passing years with her dorky bandmates, her forgiving husband, her passionate lover who’d burn herself to light up others, her deceased father who’d always be the home to Sharon.

Yes, Sharon took her time living her life to the fullest. It had its costs, sacrificing the things that as Tarja would put it, _what we are risking was far too grave to be estimated._ Back then Sharon said she understands, but she actually didn’t.

Now she definitely understood it better.

***

  1. 7\. 13.



Hours ago, Tarja wished her a happy birthday on WT’s official page.

Sharon waited with a hunch, patient, that something big was about to happen; if not she was going to take action.

The younger woman called. Sharon answered at the first ring.

“We should talk about what happened.” … _with us. What are we?_

“Yes, we should.”

The conversation flowed, first in a casual, careful stream, then flooding in waves of honesty and confession. This time, the tears were reviving the old promises of greater things. This time, no scores were kept in the game.

Because it was never a game.

It was the brightest summer of creeping shadows, shaded by blooming roses and branches that were not dead at all, because how would it be able to nourish the flowers with love? Green lives thrived against the cycles of life and death, while possibilities were granted to Sharon and Tarja time and again because they never learn. But perhaps this time they would. They shall.

_~FIN~_

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my next fic which I have no idea how it happened. Stay healthy, and long live Sharja!


End file.
